With Eyes to See
by vennat
Summary: It only became a problem during his first year at Hogwarts. Or rather, Harry only acknowledged the problem then. (abuse fic, mentor snape, NO severitus)


It only became a problem during his first year at Hogwarts. Or rather, Harry only acknowledged the problem then.

He didn't say anything about it.

How could he? Snape was breathing down his neck constantly, whining how Perfect Potter always got his way, got anything he whined for. Harry wanted more than anything for that to be a lie. He always knew he was asking for too much. Friendship, a warm bed, safety, food. It all added up, and it would be too much to ask for help, to ask for this on top of everything else Harry had been given.

The other problem was his own gratuity. His aunt and uncle had said to him over and over how ungrateful he was- and it wasn't true. Harry refused to believe it. He wanted to believe that he always knew it could be snatched from him, pulled like a rug from under his feet, sending him crashing to the floor. (Dudley had done it to him once. It was not a pleasant experience). He was trying to make himself grateful. He knew at the very least he was thankful for this one thing Aunt Petunia had gotten him that wasn't Dudley's- this one thing she had spent money on. For him.

(Something hot and hard burned in his stomach when he thought about it. When he thought about Aunt Petunia telling him they were going to the store, when he thought about how Aunt Petunia had taken out her wallet, how Aunt Petunia had spent an entire £8, on him! She hadn't even tried to haggle the shopkeeper!)

At the same time, Harry didn't want to feel grateful for the fact that his Aunt has spent her pocket change on him. Didn't want to feel grateful for the fact that she had bought him a necessity, something he couldn't do work without. They were just a pair of glasses, not even prescription ones. The generic kind you bought if you had a simple problem with you vision- unlike Harry, who has practically blind without his glasses.

(But… Harry still sought his Aunt's favor, whether he was aware of it or not. And to him, these glasses seemed like a gift, precious beyond imagination. He couldn't even begin to think of discarding them, and asking selfishly for a newer, better pair.)

So he squinted a lot. His head would ache because he couldn't really see anything, just a foot or two in front of himself, before everything went back to a blurry blob. And sure, seeing a couple feet was better than not at all.

But most of his teachers liked to write stuff on the board, and have them write it down, before they delved into the intricacies of the matter. Professor Binns was one of the few teachers who would lecture, and neglect to use his board at all. For that, Harry was thankful.

Then there were teachers like Snape.

His spidery scrawl was an obstacle in and of itself. Coupled with a large classroom, and Harry's tendency to hide towards the back- Harry had no idea what was going on in that class, and his potions suffered because of it. He survived mainly on watching Hermione, one row in front of him, and copying her every move. But even she was fairly blurry.

—

"For your examination, I will have you brew a potion." Snape finished scribbling something on the chalkboard, and whipped around, robes fanning out around his feet. "It will be done without a partner, and without a textbook. You will follow a shortened recipe that I will provide on the board, but you will need to know the proper stirring techniques and ways that each ingredient should be readied before being added to the potion."

Snape began to walk between the desks. His pace was slow, steady. Hands behind his back, gaze piercing. He stopped, glare landing on the group of tables holding Ron, Harry, Hermione, and a smattering of other First Year Gryffindors.

"If you do not follow the instructions to the letter, you will get yourself and your classmates hurt. This is not a game." His cold gaze landed on Harry, "Inattentive idiocy will not be permitted in my classroom."

Harry stiffened under his gaze, fearful. As defiant as he liked to feel, he also knew what power the professor held over him. One slip up on top of the others, one large transgression could have him sent back to the Dursley's. Sent back to a cold cupboard, and days filled with too much work and too few friends and too little food. So Harry's spine went straight, fear clenching around his heart. If Snape noticed the change in posture, he did not show it.

But, instead of antagonizing Harry, as he often did, Snape turned back around to walk towards his desk at the front of the class.

"Weasley, five points from Gryffindor for your sorry state of dress. Class dismissed."

"That slimy gi-" Harry grabbed Ron by the elbow, and began to tow him from the classroom.

"Not now, Ron. Nothing you can do, let it go." Upon reaching the hallway, Ron and Harry met up with Hermione, who began to fuss over Ron's state of dress, straightening his tie and adjusting the robes on his shoulders.

As Harry watched on, he began to feel as if he was being watched. He turned around, hoping to catch the person who was staring by surprise. Instead, he caught Snape's gaze. The professor was too fuzzy to make out much, but Harry could tell that he was staring at Hermione, Ron, and him.

He grabbed Ron and Hermione's arms, pulling them away from the Potions classroom and leading them up the steps towards the rest of the school. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his hands were shaky and sweaty, nervousness flooding through him.

"Harry, what are you doing? Harry? Where are you taking us? Is something wrong?" Hermione pestered him as he pulled them along, and Harry suddenly realized how odd this must look, just grabbing the two of them and pulling them along. He abruptly released their arms.

"Just… h-hungry, is all. Thought we should hurry up and get to lunch." Harry's two friends gave him odd looks, but seemed to brush it off

"Alright, mate, but you could have just asked us." Ron said, clapping him on the shoulder. He stepped a couple of steps in front of Harry, before grinning at him mischievously.

"Race ya to the great hall!" Ron said quickly, before darting forwards, dodging between the other first years on the steps.

"Ronald-" Hermione then turned to Harry, giving him a disapproving look. But Harry was already started up the steps, racing after his friend. He turned around, pausing only for a second to talk to his other friend.

"C'mon, Mione, last one there's a rotten egg!" Harry turned around again, and began to run in earnest. Hermione muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "boys, idiots, the lot of them" before she, too, began to run after her friends towards the great hall. All thoughts of Snape were forgotten.

—

But Severus had not forgotten what he had seen.

He could not seem to get the image of Potter out of his head, fear flashing across his face and Severus looked over at him. Severus usually thrives on the fear First Years felt for him, especially that of the sniveling Gryffindors. But… too many things were stacking up, things that Severus did not enjoy.

The Potter brat was never afraid of him. Usually, one look from Severus would have him defiant, ready for a challenge. But these past couple weeks, Potter has been acting odd. Skittish, jumpy, quiet. When Severus watched, Potter still chattered away with his friends in the Great Hall during meal times. But when alone, he seemed contemplative. He always jumped hard when people surprised him, shrunk into himself when people raised hands around him, and seemed to close off when voices were raised.

It was painting a picture Severus had seen all too often in his own snakes. Had even seen it before in children from other houses, though the other professors often helped those children. But Potter seemed to be good enough at hiding these things about himself that only someone trained to watch others would have noticed. But Severus could not bring himself to believe the truth in these things. Could not bring himself to understand what this could possibly mean for the Potter brat.

Another thing Severus had noticed was his schoolwork. While he couldn't see how Potter was doing in his other classes, his work in Potions left Severus confused. As much as he hated to admit it, Potter's written work was exceptional. He understood the theories in and out, understood all the intricacies and actual reasoning behind how the making of potions worked. But then the boy came to class and destroyed Potions- he chopped and minced and crushed as he was supposed to, but everything was added in the wrong order and stirred wrong- and over all made Potions that could rival Longbottom's in danger. It just didn't make sense.

He sat at his desk, thumbing through the First Year essays. Potter's was on top, completely void of red ink, except for the singular check mark at the top to signify it had been graded. As he flipped through the stack, another essay caught his eye- Granger's. Her's, too, had only a red check mark at the top.

The wheels in Severus' head began to turn, and it only took a moment for him to realize that the Potter brat must have copied his work from Granger. Anger began to flood through him, visible only because his fist was clenched, knuckles white. 'Of course that entitled snot would feel it is acceptable to cheat off of his little friend,' Severus thought angrily.

Severus looked to the clock on his desk. 9:27. Good, still half of an hour until the brat had to be in his common room. Plenty of time for him to call him to his office.

Severus stood, throwing some floo powder into the fireplace. The fireplace here in his office was connected to a smaller version of the floo network, connections running only to Pomfrey, the heads of the other houses, and the Headmaster's office.

"Professor McGonagall's office." The flames burned bright, and after a moment Severus stepped through, into Minerva's office. Stepping out of the fire, he swept the ashes from his robes quickly, before looking up to address the owner of the office. Minerva looked up at him from her desk, where she seemed to also be grading essays.

"Do you need something, Severus?" Minerva's voice was tired, but he felt no remorse at having disturbed her as a fresh wave of anger flashed through him.

"I need to see Potter. Tell him to come to my classroom immediately."

"Severus, you cannot-" Severus held up a hand, and Minerva paused, frowning at him.

"This is a matter of importance, Minerva, and I would appreciate it if you would trust my judgement on the matter." After a terse moment, the woman gave a nod.

"Alright." She stood, setting her quill into a stand and turning to face the door. "I will tell him to report to you immediately."

"Thank you, Minerva. Good night." Minerva, hand on the door, heaved a sigh.

"And a good night to you, Severus."

—

Harry was sitting with Ron and Hermione in the best chairs by the fire. Hermione had a large book in her lap, which lay forgotten. Ron and Harry sat in chairs opposite each other and animatedly discussed quidditch, with the occasional interjection from Hermione on certain rules or who points went to in certain situations. Harry would have been content to sit here with his friends for an eternity, but a hand on his shoulder made him jump harshly, jarring his sense of comfort. Hermione and Ron quieted, and Harry turned around to see his Head of House.

"Mr. Potter, Professor Snape has asked that you go to his classroom, as he has a matter he must speak to you about. Please go quickly, curfew is close." Harry looked at the clock, and noticed he had a little less than half of an hour until curfew. He nodded, and stood from the coveted chair.

"Yes, Professor." Satisfied, McGonagall headed back through the door to her office through which she had come. Hermione gave him a worried smile, while Ron muttered something that sounded like "greasy bastard" as he walked away, Harry heard Hermione's sharp reprimand, so he figured that was likely.

Harry walked quickly through the halls, dread in his stomach. What could Snape want to see him for? Honestly, he hadn't done anything against the rules. He was in bed for curfew, had turned in all his homework, shown up for every meal… Harry could think of very few reasons Snape would like to see him. Had they found out about the Dursley's? About the cupboard under the stairs? Can he get in trouble for that? He's not sure, but he knows that at Privet drive, he often got in trouble for simply existing. Worry churned in his stomach.

Before long, Harry had reached the Potions classroom. He brought a shaking fist up to bang on the door. Barely a moment had passed before Snape told him to enter. Harry entered, twisting his robes in his hands nervously.

"Mr. Potter," Snape says, turning around from the blackboard. He gestures to the seat in front of his desk, "sit."

Harry sits in the seat, and Snape moves forward to copy him. Once he's seated, Snape makes a show of flipping through the essays on his desk, finally laying aside two of them. He flips them around, before sliding them towards Harry.

"Do you know what these are, Mr. Potter?" Harry's fingers begin to pick at his robes unconsciously. He leans forward, squinting at the two pieces of parchment in front of him.

"M-my copy of la-last week's ho-homework? A-and… Her-Hermione's?" He shrinks back after answering the question. Snape watches as the boy avoids eye contact, and is once again reminded of his earlier musings about children needing his help. But this is Potter. Golden boy, pampered little brat. The same can't be true about him.

"Anything you would like to tell me about it?" Snape's voice is cold, and doesn't betray his internal conflict. 'You have to have actual proof', he thinks to himself, 'you have to observe before drawing conclusions.'

Potter has a confused look on his face, and Severus can see his hands twisting together in his lap now, having moved from the chair. The boy shakes his head.

"I think…" he says, drawing it out, "that you copied off of Ms. Granger. I think that you did not complete this work yourself."

"I wouldn't!" Harry says, indignant, before he can stop himself. He realizes after a moment that he has begun to stand, so he sits back down, sheepish. Snape just raises a singular eyebrow at him, and Harry feels shamed.

"And yet, I cannot believe you." He pauses, waiting for Harry to interrupt. When the boy says nothing, he continues.

"Your work outside of class is…" Snape pauses, searching for a word that doesn't seem too praising. "Acceptable. It is on par with Granger's. But when presented with a physical display of what you have learned, your results are abysmal. How am I to believe that this is your work, when you aren't able to physically apply your skills?"

Harry had slowly shrunk back into his seat at Snape's harsh words, the reprimand stinging as bad as Aunt Petunia's sharp words do. He feels tears that he desperately doesn't want to release burning at the back of his eyes.

"I- it is my work, Sir, I st-studied the textbook a-and I wrote the ess-essays. I didn't c-copy." Harry can feel his fingernails leaving little crescents in his hand, but the pain is lost in the tide of shame and guilt swirling in his gut. Snape sneers at him front across the desk.

"Then prove it, Potter." Snape stands from his desk, and draws his wand from inside his sleeve, where it lays in a hidden holster. With a wave, the instructions for a simple healing potion are on the board, somehow still in the familiar spidery scrawl.

"You have less than half of an hour before curfew. This potion can be brewed in 15 minutes. Finish after curfew and you shall receive a detention." Another wave of his wand, and a cauldron, the proper instruments, and the proper ingredients for the potion zoomed towards a third row desk.

Harry's stomach seemed to bottom out as he realized that that was much too far for him to see the board. But, unwilling to incur the wrath of his Professor once again, he stood without a word and walked to the desk. Snape; after collecting a fresh pile of essays, a quill, and ink from his desk, followed Harry, before seating himself backwards at the desk-table in the front row. He looked up to where Harry was standing, frozen by anxiety.

"I said begin, Potter!" Snape's sharp tone of voice spurred him to action, and he hurried to the cauldron. Once there, Snape dropped his piercing gaze down to the essays in front of him, which Harry was thankful for.

Harry looked helplessly at the blurry blackboard towards the front of the room, unable to read a single word on it. So instead, he turns his gaze down to the ingredients in front of him. These, at least, he can recognize. This, he knows how handle.

So he scoops the newt eyes onto a cutting board, and begins to quarter them. He flattens the frog tongues, powders the crow's bones, and minces the flower roots. He slides it all into the cauldron and just… hopes for the best. (The best being that it doesn't explode in his face, violently and instantly).

Snape has yet to look up at him once since sitting down (at least, that Harry can tell), so Harry looks down into the potion that he is almost 85% sure is the entirely wrong color and is 100% sure is the incorrect consistency, and calls for Snape to come look at it. Snape stands, expression full of boredom.

"Late, Potter. It took your 20 minutes to make the Potion. See me at 6:00 tomorrow for your detention." Harry bites his tongue at his outrage bubbling in him, about how he will miss dinner- knowing that yelling at adults never does any real good, that it only ever gets him in worse trouble. But then Snape is next to him and the fight is shoved from his body by his fear.

"This is…" Snape uses a glass stirrer lying next to the cauldron, and pokes at the lumpy, yellow mass inside the cauldron. He seems, for a moment, at a loss for words.

"Did you even read the instructions?" He seems to have found his voice.

Harry turns bright red, eyes dropping down to his shoes.

"I-I. Of course I r-read the in-instructions." But Harry's voice is small, quiet, and has no fight to it. Severus knows immediately that the boy is lying. He wants to feel angry, but he's just confused- about Potter, this situation, and why all the facts he has been learning aren't painting the boy to be the pampered brat Severus believed him to be. Severus pushes down the confusion- and something that feels all too close to sympathy- and all that he is left with is anger.

"Why? You know how dangerous potions can be, you dunderheaded boy, you are lucky that these didn't blo-"

"I can't! I can't see the board, ok? I know how dangerous these ingredients are, I know how dangerous potions can be. But I can't se-" Harry stops himself, suddenly, the expression on his face horrified.

The two stare at each other for a short moment, and before Severus can say or do anything, the boy is bolting from the room, out the door in seconds. Severus sighs, but does not go after him.

He pokes at the potion (if it can be called that) in front of him a few more times, before banishing it and floating the cauldron back to the stack of other dirty ones near the sink. Potter will have the honor of cleaning those tomorrow during his detention.

Once the desk Potter was at is cleaned up, Severus walks towards his desk, thinking. Without noticing, he begins to pace up the isles and rows of desks. Thoughts swirl through his head as he thinks over what just happened.

Could Potter have been… he's afraid to think of the word, even though it is locked safely in his head. But the facts are stacking up, the weight of them crushing his previous assumptions. He goes through what he knows.

Petunia is likely even more vile than she was as a child, and now she's married to that oaf, Vernon. Snape had seen his Hogwarts letter before it was sent out. "Cupboard under the stairs." The boy recoils and hides and does not trust authority. He was not provided for, based on the state of his clothes outside of Hogwarts uniform. He told me he couldn't see, so it is likely that he doesn't even have proper glasses. That… could also explain his terrible performance in Potions. There is no way he could create a successful potion if he cannot read the instructions to do so.

As Severus thinks, he realizes that his core ideals of this boy are wrong. He's not been pampered, he's not been cared for, and most importantly…

He's been abused, or at the very least, neglected.

Severus has seen the signs but had been all to willing to ignore them, judgement clouded with preconceived ideas of what James Potter's son should be like. But he forgot that this child was Lily's child, too. He was so ignorant to facts he didn't want to see that a child could have been put in danger.

The realization was like a punch in the gut, that Severus could have been the reason Lily's child was endangered, hurt. He knows now that he will do all that is within his power to make sure that this mistake is rectified, to make sure that Po- Harry is safe.

—

The next day, when Harry knocks on Snape's door at 6:00, he almost expects Snape not to let him in, after the way he stormed out yesterday. Instead, the door swings open on the first knock. Snape doesn't look angry. Or malicious, or vindictive, or… anything, really. His face is carefully blank, but he opens the door wider and Harry steps in. Snape sweeps over to his desk, and gestures in an off handed way towards the sink in the back, and a stack of cauldrons.

"Clean those, by hand, Mr. Potter." His voice is as carefully blank as his face, and Harry is a bit chilled by the emptiness of the tone. Harry says nothing, and walks to the back of the classroom where the sink is.

As he walks, he folds his uniform sleeves in the neat, precise rolls that he learned from watching Petunia. (He learned the hard way that asking her to fold his sleeves for him was not a good idea. But she sneered less when she saw the rolls in his sleeves done like hers, and it lessened the knot in Harry's chest just a little.)

He hauls the first cauldron into the sink, skinny little 11 year old arms shaking from the weight of it. He runs the hot water into it, counts to 60 while it sits, and then grabs the sponge and scrubs at the crust and grime buildup inside the heavy metal cauldron.

He continues like this, systematically scrubbing every single one until he can see his reflection. Severus watches on from his desk, and notices how this is the first time in any detention he's ever held that the cauldrons are actually cleaned. The boy knows what he's doing. At 11 years old, the boy knows how to scrub a cauldron to gleaming. The knowledge settles like a stone in his stomach.

Eventually, Harry finishes with the cauldrons. He turns to ask Snape what he'd like him to do next, but before he can ask him, the professor is speaking to him.

"Sit." He gestures to the seat opposite his desk, and Harry does as instructed.

"Potter…" Snape pauses, thinking about how he should approach this. "I must ask you something, and I hope you will tell me the truth. I want to… help." Harry looks startled.

"Y-yes Sir. Help with w-what?" Snape sighs, and to Harry, he looks to have aged a decade. He figures it prudent not to comment on that.

"How is your eyesight, Harry?" The question, and use of his name, seem to catch the boy off guard, for a moment, when his hand shoots halfway up to his face, before stopping and sinking back to his lap.

"F-fine Sir." He doesn't meet Snape's eyes. "I, I mean, I have glass-glasses. But o-other than that, I c-can see f-fine." Snape raises an eyebrow at him.

"Then you won't mind me asking you to read this, than?" He stands, and walks to the board at the front of the room. He gestures at something on the board, but it's fuzzy and Harry isn't even sure exactly where Snape is pointing.

"I'm n'sure, Sir." He mumbles, and he hopes against all reason that Snape will just let it go, will just go back to being rude and slimy as usual. He doesn't, and moves to a different part of the board, gesturing to another piece of writing.

"And this?"

"No, Sir."

They continue on like this for another few minutes, shame and frustration building in Harry's chest as time goes on.

"I can't read any of them, okay! You caught me, I can't see more than a foot or two in front of myself! Please can you just assign my punishments and let me go already?" Harry slumps back in his seat, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes viciously to hold back the tears lurking there. He takes deep gulping breaths, forcing himself to calm down. He hears the slow, quiet footsteps of his professor walking towards him, and tenses for a physical rebuke. Instead, warm hands land softly on his shoulders, and he can feel his professor crouching in front of him.

"Harry-" Snape's voice catches, and he paused to clear his throat. "I will not punish you for not being able to see." His voice is soft, reassuring, and unlike anything Harry's ever heard directed at him before. He takes his hands off his eyes, slowly. Snape is looking at him, face soft and open. Harry's breath stutters out of him, and tears he fought so desperately slide down his face.

"Why are you being so... nice? To me?" Snape sighs at him, but not unkindly.

"I… allowed my feelings to cloud my judgement. Your father and I hated each other, at school, and I believed that you would be every bit the spoiled brat that he was upon your arrival to Hogwarts. I'm sorry." Harry feels like his stomach has bottomed out.

He had so many questions. He wants to ask about his father, ask if Snape knew his mother. But Aunt Petunia had always called him freakish when he asked questions. And Snape was being nice and Harry couldn't risk him changing his demeanor on him, as adults had so often, so he stayed silent.

"Harry, why did you think I would punish you for your eyesight?" Snape felt Harry's shoulders tense under his grip, and the boy dropped his gaze once again.

"No- no reason, Sir." Snape knew the boy was lying, but couldn't blame them if his reasonings were what he thought they were.

"Did your relatives punish you? Did they hit you without any good reason?" Again, Snape feels his whole body go rigid.

"No, Sir, I deserved it! I was a freak, I did freakish things, I des-"

"Harry! No, you didn't deserve it. There's never a reason an adult should hit a child. Ever." Harry looked up at him, shy and tentative.

"I-I didn't do anything wrong?"

"No, Harry, you didn't do anything wrong, I promise." Snape smiled at him, soft and kind, in a way Harry had never experienced before. "Now, let's get this problem worked out with your glasses. Report to my classroom on Saturday at 10:00am, and we'll go to Diagon Alley."

Harry nodded, still a bit shocked. Snape stood, turning to his desk and checking the clock.

"You've got around 20 minutes before dinner is over, if you hurry and go now you can likely get some food before the tables are cleared." Snape turns to Harry, and the boy nods again before rushing from the room. As the door closes behind him, Snape sinks into the chair at his desk.

What in the hell just happened? It felt like his demeanor towards Harry (dear God im calling him by his first name) had done a 360 in just a few moments.

What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

yes, i realize that the ending to this is very ambiguous but i don't plan to fix it up any more. crossposted on ao3, find me on tumblr v-ennat


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